A Grief Shared Together
by niennavalier
Summary: After the Battle, Bilbo must deal with the grief in the face of tragedy. It is a difficult task, one he could never have accomplished without the support of his friends. Basically, a slight AU to the ending of BOTFA.


**A/N: Basically my own version of the ending, using bits of the movie, the book, and original ideas, for a new version of how the ending might have gone. Dedicated to CersiFinallyGotWhatSheDeserved, whose conversations with me sparked this whole thing, and without whom this wouldn't have existed at all. And just a few more quick notes: Dain shows up, and I attempted his accent, but I don't know how well that actually turned out; also, the very ending (as in the last sentence) was inspired by a prompt from ImaginexHobbit over on tumblr (which I'll reveal at the end so as to not spoil it). So, hope you enjoy! Oh, and FYI, this isn't an Everyone Lives AU. Fair Warning. Things ultimately end the same, jut a slightly different route to get there.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own The Hobbit or any familiar characters, material, places, etc. I just write stuff.**

* * *

Blood. It was everywhere. Stained the ground, fouled the air. Bright incarnadine splashed about in warm, sticky puddles. Perhaps at a time, he might have been mortified by the sight, by the death, by the slaughter. But no longer. This was a very different hobbit than the one who had left the Shire, more worried about his forgotten pocket handkerchief than the possibility of a war flown in on the wings of a dragon. Far too content to sit around idly, with his full pantry and endless supply of books, than explore the wide and dangerous lands of Middle Earth, to chronicle a journey whose words would last a lifetime and beyond. Truly living for the first time, only to end in so much death. Bodies of orcs, wargs, elves, dwarves, men, laid beside each other, their own stories come to a close, their endings witnessed by a pair of invisible eyes. Yet the brutality bothered him not as much as it rightly should, Sting whipping around him, inflicting mysterious wounds upon his foes, all in the name of protecting his friends, the friends who knew not of his fights for their safety, maybe thinking him fled to the side of the Elvenking at Thorin's outburst. But Bilbo Baggins was no such coward. Not after everything he had gone through.

Banishment by the leader of their company had hurt, had stung, but only the most despicable of beings would dare turn their back on those who had (albeit grudgingly) put their trust in him even when he'd had none in himself. So he'd slipped the ring on, trying so hard to ignore its whispers of sweet nothings in his head, braving the battlefield without a second thought. Yet, despite all he had seen, none of that could even make claim to compare to the monstrosity of battle around him. A flurry of colors and limbs, none of the action clear in his eye, save one thing. The Company. The thirteen dwarves, fighting like no less than seasoned warriors, royal armors taken from the forges of Erebor glinting like golden fire in the oppressive sunlight. In front of the gates they fought to protect their newly recovered homeland, in no need of assistance of any type, though Bilbo kept up his vigil amongst it all, feeling – no, knowing – it was his responsibility to ensure their well-being. Like a single being they moved, no harm coming to them, and it seemed the tide of the battle had favored them.

But, oh, how plans could so swiftly change.

Rising from the swirling mass, the white orc himself appeared, parting the tumultuous seas with his every step, clearing a path straight to the new King Under the Mountain. Thorin was never one to back down from a challenge, Bilbo had learned over the course of the year, and within a moment, the two clashed. Something akin to panic flew through the hobbit's chest as he tried to surge forward, tried to help, but alas. The crowd of fighting bodies blocked the way of the invisible hobbit, preventing his progress forward, forcing him to remain where he was, a helpless spectator to a showdown sure to end in death. The two adversaries maneuvered gracefully about one another, a choreographed dance both had been planning years in advance for this very day. The bright glint of the cold sun burned from Thorin's sword and armor, drawing Bilbo's eye forever in the direction of his King, as the brightly glaring blade sunk into the pale orc's midsection, piercing the scarred flesh, bringing evil to its knees as the proud dwarf ended the life of his nemesis.

Yet, Fate had no plans to allow for a moment of celebration. Dark arrows whistled forward, embedding themselves in Thorin's stomach. Time itself stopped its frantic race, slowing to an agonizing crawl. The sounds of voices screamed through the air, united in the name laid upon their tongues. Distantly, the hobbit registered the forms of the young Heirs of Durin rushing forward to protect their uncle, facing the closing circle of foes which surrounded them, closed in. And Bilbo knew he had to get there, but the weight of one small hobbit had little effect in moving such a great wall. It was a hopeless venture, but that mattered not in the face of a will power far larger than its diminutive vessel. The going was slow, far slower than he would have liked, but steadily he worked through the crowd, no longer able to see the battles raging around him, yet unable to dismiss the ever growing sense of dread weighing down his mind. He shook his head fervently, trying to clear it of dark futures, dark possibilities. He had to get there, he had to get there -

A great weight fell upon him, and darkness came to reign.

* * *

When Bilbo again awoke, it was to an empty battlefield, bodies of dead orcs, elves, and dwarves alike strewn about as he rose to his feet, head swimming and fuzzy at the same time, throbbing in a steady rhythm. Not a single sign of life could be found: not Thranduil's armies, or Dain's, nor the men of Laketown, or the orcs. What had happened? Had the battle been won? By what side?

Where was everybody? Where were his friends?

 _Dead, dead, they are dead. They are gone. You have failed them, Bilbo Baggins..._

No, no. They were not dead! They couldn't be! They didn't come so far only to fall short at the end!

 _You could not save them..._

The hobbit ripped the ring off his finger, coming suddenly again into view, as the whispers in his head silenced. This thing, it was lying to him. All his friends, they were safe, maybe hurt but alive. They were in the healing tents in the elves' camp near Dale. Fili and Kili were making jokes about the elves, Bofur joining in on their antics. Ori was busy sketching everything, from the ruins of the city to the great halls of Erebor. Oin was off tending to the wounded. Nori gambled with Bifur and Bombur, all the while arguing with Dori on whether or not that set a bad example for their youngest brother. Dwalin stood to the side, on guard and wary, occasionally muttering things to Gloin, who stood nearby. Balin watched on, a twinkle in his eye and a smile on his lips, from the bedside of Thorin, bandaged but recovering, content and without a single trace of the lingering dragon sickness.

 _Yes, that was what was happening, surely_ , the hobbit thought, his mind racing as quickly as his feet, bringing him closer and closer to the city once scorched by dragon fire. There could be no other possibilities. Everyone was in Dale. Everyone was alright. Darker scenarios tugged at his mind, however, as much as he dared not believe them, running through the gates into the once-great city of men. Nothing would convince him otherwise, nothing short of -

"Bilbo Baggins!" The hobbit halted and turned at the familiar voice. Gandalf, a bit tired and worse for wear, but, for the most part, unharmed. Thank goodness. "Oh, am I glad to see you. Where in the world have you been?"

"I -" He couldn't relate the story of the battle nor of his magic ring now; there were far more important matters at hand! "It's a long story. Where are the dwarves?"

Almost immediately, a shadow passed over Gandalf's features, sending a wave of dread rushing through Bilbo's heart, the temperature of the air plummeting. "Follow me," the wizard commanded solemnly, leading the two in the direction of the healing tents.

He stopped before the opening of one such tent, and with only the quickest glance within, Bilbo knew its occupant, a heavy stone dropping in his chest. "Thorin?" The hobbit swung back around to the wizard, hoping – praying to Mahal – that no, that was not Thorin in there, so pale and still, laid alone and unattended. Of course not; the fearless leader of their Company who had led this group of misfits in a year-long journey across the lands, fighting spiders and goblins and the pale orc himself – he could not possibly be dead, could not possibly be dying, not after all they had been through.

But, alas, Gandalf offered no correction to Bilbo's question, features sagging ever so slightly in sad apology. Still, the hobbit dared not believe it, rambling on, "No – no. That can't be him. It just – it can't. This – it's all a mistake. Thorin is perfectly fine, and – and Fili and Kili – they're trying to trick me, and," here he laughed shortly, bitterly, beginning to address the empty space which presumably hid the dwarves, ready to jump out to reveal that all was well, "it's not funny. Not funny at all! And – and –"

"Bilbo." Said hobbit froze, words dying in his throat, his worst fears now confirmed.

In later recounting the story, Bilbo never could say how he suddenly materialized, seated, at his friend's side, harboring no recollection of what he could only assume was the longest trip he had ever taken, second not even to his journey to Erebor. On instinct, he reached for the still hand on the bedsheets.

It was cold. He tried to ignore that.

"Thorin, I… I am so sorry for what happened. I – I didn't mean anything by it. I just – I just thought that…" That what? _That you had gone insane, that you could not be trusted? That you had become as bad as the beast which had once stolen your homeland?_ Such words were not those with which Bilbo wanted to end their friendship, but no matter how he tried, he could not conceive those which he desired. He knew only that he wanted to apologize.

But the dwarf cut him off with a weak shake of the head. "Worry not, master burglar. You did what you thought right, and for that, I cannot fault you. It is I who must beg your forgiveness, for I wish to part in friendship and take back my deeds and words at the gate." The voice was weak, did not sound right at all, nothing like the deep bass which Bilbo had grown accustomed to.

Looking down hastily at the floor, and equally hastily back up, Bilbo responded, "You are my friend, always have been, and always will be. This all – it has been an honor, one far more than any Baggins has rightly deserved." Peace settled in the dwarf's blue eyes, and for that, Bilbo could not help but be grateful.

Silence fell once more, for there was little else to be said, broken only by the occasional spasms of pain, a smaller hand crushed by a larger one as the inevitable end neared.

Tears blurred Bilbo's eyes, began flowing in rivulets down his face, tasting salty on his tongue each time a strangled sob left his lips. He made himself believe it was the physical pain and no more.

Mere minutes passed in this manner, though it felt to the hobbit as though millennia had passed in slow agony, before the King Under the Mountain had passed to the halls of his fathers, naught left to the world but the legacy of Thorin Oakenshield, and the memories held precious by his companions. Some time later, there was a gentle hand on his shoulder, Gandalf suddenly leading him away, out of the tent, as Oin and a handful of healers entered. Part of Bilbo wanted to stop, to yell, to demand that _wasn't there something more you could have done? Why did you not try? Surely you could have saved his life! Was it not worth it? Do you not remember all that we have survived? Together?_ But the energy did not find him, far too exhausted as he was by the ordeal, for this breed of tragedy, Bilbo reflected as Gandalf led him through the ruins of the city of Dale, it was not common to hobbits. He knew not how to deal with something so immense, so heart-wrenching.

His entire life he had spent in comfort. Eating food, reading books, making merry as he pleased. The wrongs of the world seemed not to touch him, protected as he was by the boundaries of the Shire, by the walls of Bag End. Evil and loss, what was that? True, there had been his parents, but that sort was different. They had lived long lives, been happy, seen comfort, wanted for nothing. It had been their time, and he'd been given a chance to acknowledge that. This, it was entirely different. Perhaps the other races, with their wars and battles, had come to grips with mortality and its fragileness, but not hobbits. Death – it was so sudden, so unwelcomed. Despite it all, Bilbo could not have prepared for it, with Thorin, least of all. He had not deserved to die! Not after losing everything, not after reclaiming it. He should have seen the fruits of his labors, not had them stolen away as his dreams were to be realized. It was not fair; it was not right. It was unjust, and the hobbit could see no other description for it. Could do little else but forlornly wonder why.

The only thing that eventually dragged him out of his own mind was the smell, rotten and damp. The war rams. His other senses began their sluggish return to him; voices were calling out to him, speaking his name, some in tones of surprise, others of relief. In mere moments, he found himself fully surrounded by dwarves as they embraced him heartily, glad to see that another of their Company had survived the battle. Bilbo tried as best he could to return the sentiments. But it took little time for them to grasp the heavy air weighting down the reunion. The words of relief quickly turned to those of confusion, for there was no possible way to hide the redness surrounding his eyes, nor the dried trails of tears running down his cheeks.

"Bilbo?"

"Laddie? What's wrong?"

"What is it?"

Then, the voice of Balin, "Is it…?" All went silent at that.

And Bilbo could not keep it hidden any longer; his friends did not deserve such deception. "It… it's Thorin," his voice caught horribly at the name, "He... he's…" _Dead_ , he had meant to say, but the word refused to be uttered, so final a label it was, and one which the hobbit had yet to accept himself. Fortunately, the dwarves, even with their tactlessness, understood, pressed him no further, simply gathering closer, pulling each other into tight hugs, uttering few words, taking comfort in closeness. The tears again began to blur Bilbo's eyes, as much as he tried to blink them back, and through them, he could make out the shape of a lone figure hastily disappearing, though it was the heavy sounds of a warrior's footsteps that told who the shape belonged to: Dwalin, gone off to grieve in his own manner after the loss of his best friend.

But it was not until after Bilbo spotted Dwalin and the brief session of shared grief had begun to dwindle that he fully began to realize a sense of something very wrong. More wrong than that which had already transpired. In the chaos, Bilbo had yet to hear two distinct voices, no cry of "Mr. Boggins!" nor the exasperated, yet affectionate, correction of the outburst. Something pure, something good, had been drained from the atmosphere, and Bilbo could not help but curse himself for not realizing it sooner, an even greater sense of dread beginning to rise, hot and twisted, in his stomach. The talk around him began to die down, as he blurted out, "Fili…and Kili…where are they?"

Even as he asked the question, already he could feel the crushing weight of tragic truth falling upon him, heavier and far more painful than what had stolen his consciousness away on the battlefield with a hard knock to the head. For, just before that, just before the battle for him had ended, he had seen them, the young Princes of Durin, standing and fighting, protecting their fallen uncle. He had seen as enemies had closed around them. He had felt the unease churning through him when they had disappeared from his sight. But, please, please no, he prayed to the Valar, please don't let that be the reality. Please, let them be hiding around the corner, or perhaps even visiting their uncle, giving one last goodbye. Anything except the looming possibility clouding his mind.

Yet, the Company had fallen silent once more, pairs of eyes staring back at him with apprehension painting their gazes, as though they debated what they might tell. And this silence, Bilbo could not handle. "Where are they?" he asked once again, more forceful this time.

"M-mister Bilbo?" Ori stepped forward, not even Dori making an attempt to pull him back this time. "Th-they were protecting Thorin. They're…gone."

Gone. The short word was enough the break the façade of composed mourning Bilbo had fabricated for himself. Fresh and hot tears running anew, he collapsed onto the cold stone, legs no longer able to hold the weight of guilt and grief built up inside. For a few moments, those tears splashed, wetting the ground between his fingers, broken sobs the only sound echoing through the empty night. Until, suddenly, Ori was there on the ground before him, and, without a second thought, Bilbo grabbed the scribe around the shoulders, pulling himself close and muffling his cries. Ori stiffened slightly at the sudden movement, yet did not pull away, instead apprehensively wrapping his arms around the smaller body of the hobbit, grounding him, securing him, until the sobs turned into comprehensible language.

"It – it – it's all my fault. I sh-should have been there. I – I should've protected them. And – and I – I failed. I – what good have I b-been if – if I could not protect them? Not Thorin, or – or Fili, or Kili. They – they w-were meant to – meant to live, and – and – and it was not supposed to end this way." The dwarf offered no words, no lies that _everything will be alright_ , for they all knew that nothing was alright, nor would anything about this night ever be alright.

In that moment, despite the raw grief, its fog clouding his mind, Bilbo began to realize something, something he had yet ever to think of before. For, throughout their travels, none could have overlooked Fili and Kili, the way the quest had changed them, matured them, transformed them from the cocky and mischievous boys in Bag End to true leaders, true Heirs of Durin. Yet, of the youngest dwarves, few had ever noted much of Ori, regardless of how he, too, had grown, no longer naively asking where he might put his plate. After all, the quest – it had changed them all, gone from a ragtag group of misfits to a true Company – a Fellowship – united eternally by their perils, their friendship, even their loss. All grown to do what all had believed impossible, and all due to the journey.

The cries beginning to subside, Bilbo calmed himself some degree, as any respectable Baggins would do, and extricated himself from the comforting arms surrounding him, looking the dwarf straight in the eye and injecting as much meaning into such a short phrase, "Thank you, Ori."

Almost immediately, there appeared at his side yet another of his friends, Bofur, offering him a hand and guiding the hobbit to their shared sleeping quarters, even the smile of the eternally-optimistic dwarf faded and sad at the edges. Little else came to pass as the dwarf showed the hobbit to the Company's shared tents, sitting him down, urging him to rest, for the days to come were sure to be long, filled with grief.

And so Bilbo did as told, near collapsing of exhaustion and closing his eyes; yet, sleep refused to come and bear him away to sweeter lands. Even against the darkness of the backs of his eyelids, his consciousness reigned. He tried remembering the songs his mother would sing to him as a child, notes with a high and lilting voice.

His mind refused to tire.

He tried simply to remember the Shire, its rolling green hills and shining lakes. Bag End, warm, filled with books and ever-supplied with food of all kinds. Save when the dwarves had arrived, the place he had first met the Company, first met Fili and Kili, first met Thorin.

Thorin, passing to the Halls of Mandos before his eyes.

Fili and Kili fighting and falling for their beloved Uncle.

The death Bilbo had not been able to stop, not due to the menacing, pitch black eyes of the pale orc, but his own ignorant ones.

It took all of his strength not to bolt upright at the moment, instead shifting often and uncomfortably, the noise of his rustling blankets eerie in the night air. How Bilbo did hate it. The sounds and the quiet, the battle and the aftermath, but, above all, himself. Never would he be able to look upon these moments and forgive himself, of that he was entirely certain.

In the midst of it all, a slight weight was soon beside him, the sound of soft breath, though not that of those slumbering. No words were spoken, for something far more profound came to be instead.

Singing. A single voice, low and grumbling, familiar, though nowhere near Thorin's deep bass. Sung in Khuzdul, with phrases Bilbo could not comprehend, but the sound comforted him, washing over him in warm waves, chasing far his ominous thoughts, ushering in the soft caress of sleep. The hobbit could feel his eyelids turn heavy, managing only a glance to the side, curious to know who had joined him.

Bofur. Something of a small smile spread over Bilbo's lips, a sudden action which surprised even himself, and he chose not to utter a sound, not to shatter the surreal atmosphere of peace in the wake of such turmoil. Sleep became at once a welcome guest, and the hobbit allowed himself submission to its grasp.

* * *

In his dreams, he knew not what he might expect. Nightmares of death? Fantasies of life? Nothing at all?

Reality, as it might turn out, proved something different.

As soon as his eyes had shut, there appeared no battlefield, nor blank slate of darkness, but a great hall, reminiscent of Erebor in its grandeur, but different in style, an ephemeral edge tingeing all. As if it were almost not there, not entirely.

And at the hall's end, there stood three figures, one golden haired, and the other two darker, though Bilbo could never have overlooked the streaks of silver in the head of one. Hearty laughter resounded, echoed from the high walls and exquisitely arched ceiling, sounds which the hobbit knew – would forever know, so long as he still drew breath.

The Heirs of Durin.

Thorin, and Fili, and Kili.

His friends.

He tried at once to make movement toward them, yet found himself rooted to the spot, unable to draw near, consigned to do naught but watch, observe. Still, even from his distance, he somehow could yet distinguish those most important details. In their eyes, there remained no lingering grief or pain carried from their mortal demise, nor any measure of resentment over being torn from the lands of Middle Earth. The brothers, rather, rejoiced some over being united again, neither forced to live or wait without the company of the other, though the joking reprimands of the elder over his brother's foolish recklessness could not possibly go unheard, the younger justifying his actions, though there was no disguising the light returned to his gaze. Even so, the change in Thorin proved the most dramatic. Lifted from his shoulders was the guilt, the responsibility, no legends or prophecies weighing down upon his back any longer. Never again might he be haunted by dragon fire burning at his skin, nor be tempted by the twisted whisperings of cursed gold. And the new situation revealed itself in his expression: less careful, less cautious, less guarded. A younger Thorin, almost, one not tortured by his past and future. Perhaps the uncle which the Princes had grown up to love, aside from the great leader which Bilbo had come to respect and admire. Nevertheless, what he saw exactly, Bilbo found difficult to put into words, though it alleviated some of the weight placed in his own stomach since the battle's end. For, perhaps, this was more than a simple dream, but a message of some sort. He had heard of such happenings, albeit in the great stories, only, but he could not discount the possibility. Not now.

And almost as if in response to his exact musings, the three dwarves made eye contact with the hobbit, each smiling at him in their own way: Kili's wide and ebullient and joyful; Fili's smaller yet calm and confident; and Thorin's meaningful as that on the Carrock, accompanied with a nod. All reassuring him. All promising him that they were alright. All reminding him that it was not his fault, and he had best not keep on blaming himself, hard as that might be.

Without their subtle comforts, Bilbo might never have considered forgiving himself. With it, he could not help but try.

* * *

The next morning arrived without spectacle, the effects of the dream lasting briefly, warding off some of the sting of guilt and grief. Yet, word of the death of the three heirs had travelled by now to even the furthest reaches of the campsite, and it soon became impossible to migrate from even one tent to the next without hearing the news spoken on one tongue or another. And along with that came talks of lineage, of rule. For Thorin was meant to become King; if not him, then Fili, or perhaps Kili. Yet, now, the line of Durin was severed, gone forever into the lands beyond, inciting the new question of royalty and rumors as to who might take the name of King Under the Mountain.

It was those talks which Bilbo tried his best to drown out. Turning the very real lives and fates of his friends into no more than a cruel, cold discussion of mere politics; that, Bilbo could not bear in the slightest.

So he dined with the Company as breakfast was served, the group of them gathered around the smoldering remains of a fire. Few spoke any words, for there were none to be said, each only glad to be among what friends yet remained. A far cry it was from the nights spent in forests under the inky sky, many of them laughing and rejoicing, the quest not yet stealing away their lightheartedness. Now, however, that lightness was unquestionably extinguished, and it seemed none had yet found the means with which to rekindle that same warm and friendly glow. If it should ever be truly lit again at all.

However, the silence was soon broken as every being in the clearing abruptly stood and haphazardly bowed, Bilbo clumsily following suit, unable to see for himself the reason for the commotion over the heads of the taller dwarves. Yet, he could hear it soon enough.

"Sit down, all of ya. I'm not king." The strong voice laced with that strange accent commanded, sending the entire population back to the floor, though every pair of eyes watched closely the movements of Dain Ironfoot as he approached the fire of the Company. As he approached Bilbo. And crouched down next to him.

The hobbit gulped, wishing the attention turned away from him, a problem solved as the warrior beside him sent a single, menacing glance over his shoulder. But, that was far from the only problem. Meeting Thorin had been one thing. His leader had radiated a subtle sense of nobility, of strength, of leadership. It was one which Bilbo had been far too oblivious to in Bag End, one which he had not come to realize until they had already begun their travels, begun respecting – and not resenting – Thorin. Dain, however, was another story entirely. Big, with a heavily set form and powerful stance which projected his presence to an entire room, all but screaming the qualities of a feared captain to even those who cared not to listen. It was intimidating, to say the least; Bilbo was sure his past self would have fainted on the spot.

"My lord," he squeaked out, not daring to look up, the stones beneath his feet suddenly incredibly intriguing.

"No need for any o' that _m'lord_ stuff, laddie. Not 'round here." Something about that brought Bilbo's head back up, enough to find his friends with their eyes also trained downwards, but clearly, covertly listening. "So, I heard y' were with Thorin when 'e died."

Bilbo recoiled at that. The Company had been painfully blunt with their words when he had first met them; Dain only took that beyond what the hobbit had grown accustomed to. "I…um…yes, I was."

"I'm sorry, lad. You shouldn't've had to see that."

"I…wouldn't have had it any other way. He was my friend, and…" Bilbo trailed off, looking once more to the floor.

There was a short pause. "You're an odd one, Master Baggins. Are all halflings like this?"

"No," Bilbo couldn't help but laugh shortly at the thought, "No, quite far from it, in fact. I suppose I always had been a bit odd, as you say, but fighting dragons and orcs – I never knew it might change me as it did."

"Aye. It changed Thorin, too."

Bilbo squinted a bit at that, subconsciously cocking his head. "What?"

"Before Smaug first came. Thorin was not always as you knew him."

"He wasn't?" Bilbo questioned. Since long before and long after the quest, Bilbo had simply assumed all had been and would remain the same about the leader of the Company. To imagine the proud, stubborn dwarf as anything else had been unthinkable.

"Course not!" And Dain soon launched into story upon story of a younger, more impulsive dwarf prince, one with naught but a brilliant future ahead. He told of the silly incidents as mere dwarflings, and the reckless excursions of youth, painting a picture of Thorin as far more than the legend, than even the friend Bilbo had come to know and admire. He could not help but chuckle at times during those more absurd tales, despite the grief still at hand, and Balin and Dwalin would do their part, too, in adding their own perspective of days past.

It was Thorin in a new light, one which Bilbo could never have imagined him in. The hobbit knew not what exactly to think of this new knowledge, nor of its telling, but he certainly did not dare to think badly of it. And, somewhere in the back of his mind, he perhaps hoped that Thorin – reunited with not only Fili and Kili, but also his grandfather, father, and brother – might again find the peace he had known before dragon fire had laid waste to his homeland.

* * *

The days and weeks had passed as Bilbo remained in Erebor, not at all willing to leave his friends, nor their new home behind, at least not without a proper farewell. After all, it had almost seemed there existed not that perfect time to take leave as the kingdom rebuilt itself. Rubble was cleared from the grand entryway where it had fallen as the Company had entered the deadly Battle, what seemed more an eternity ago than a handful of weeks. The old furnaces and workplaces were restored, the mines below seeing the beginnings of exploration. What remained of Dain's army soon reentered their legendary home, taking up residence in the newly opened living quarters, happy shouts ringing for the first time through the halls when dwarves and dwarflings and dwarrowdams from both the Iron Hills and Ered Luin began to arrive, families reunited once more. However, of course, there came, too, those who arrived to find their loved ones lost forever, tainting those joyful reunions with the occasional cries of grief and anguish.

They were cries Bilbo had been quite well acquainted with, himself.

Yet, he did not know whether to claim surprise at the arrival of the Lady Dis, and at her reaction to the most recent events, the most recent tragedy. She looked every bit as noble as her brother, the same dark hair and striking blue eyes, but proved herself quite her own force. As the dwarves – and Bilbo, following their lead – gathered around to greet her, he felt not that sense of cold majesty as he had with Thorin on the front steps of Bag End, but, rather, something gentler, more motherly. Expected, Bilbo should have guessed, to have taught Fili and Kili, helped them become the dwarves they had. However, he also should have guessed how composed she might have taken the news; there was the unmistakable pain of loss there, swimming in her irises, of course, but it hardly took her much time to pull together, reminding all that there was, after all, an entire kingdom which had to be run. It was what they would have desired, alive or not.

Bilbo felt suddenly quite weak. Strong as Thorin, she was, if not stronger.

As with Thorin, however, the unshakable exterior found itself rounded out as more and more rooms were discovered, the royal quarters not excluded. Dain's men had opened the rooms up, but it was the Company and Lady Dis who were allowed first entry. Grand, they were, if not a bit empty, large beds set in the very middle, ornate oak dressers and drawers circling against the walls, the occasional sparkle indicating decorum of gold and jewels. Bilbo tried his hardest to imagine what might have gone on behind these doors, mind occasionally wandering back to Dain's stories, though the scenes conjured by his mind surely were far from the ghosts undoubtedly haunting Lady Dis as she paced slowly across the floor, reminiscing.

None of them ever took residence in those rooms, at least so long as Bilbo had remained in Erebor.

Nevertheless, the time spent seemed to prove an altogether healing one. The triggers grew fewer, and no longer did every sight of Erebor bring a new wave of black despair into the hobbit's heart. The dreams, too, changed. Despite the early message – for that was all Bilbo could fathom it was – his dreams had remained focused on the battlefield, seeing Fili again and again struck and falling, imagining a thousand different scenarios of how the elder prince's brother or uncle might have received their fatal wounds. Or sometimes they varied, Thorin's last words as the light left his eyes, when they were not filled with madness as Bilbo relived the dwarf's threats to throw him over the wall. Now, however, the nights had changed; while those nightmares had not entirely fled from his mind, there returned other, lighter moments. Thorin's rare smiles, or perhaps those times when he commanded the Company to trust their burglar's judgement. Fili and Kili laughing around the campfire, or beginning to sing in Bag End, no matter how it had infuriated Bilbo at the time. Memories which somehow remained untainted – nostalgic, surely, but still happy.

It took little to crumble the fragile reprieve, Bilbo soon learned.

He had known about the funeral; he had expected it. He had not, however, expected the panic which was to come before. That day – that hour – he sat on the steps before the doorway to the wide room, deeper underground than the hobbit had ever been, perfectly oblivious to the hundreds of footsteps which passed beside him, loud amid the silent voices.

Suddenly, it seemed as though the last few weeks had not existed at all, overwhelming sadness screaming in his mind. The gentle healing was ripped apart, pain once more stabbing at his heart, raw as if the Battle had only happened yesterday. Tears prickled, hot and bothersome, at the corners of his eyes, though he gave his best effort not to let them fall, face carefully, stoically arranged as he stared forward at naught but the emerald stone before him. He had been allowed his fair share of crying, after all, and it seemed wrong that the Valar should grant him more. Others deserved the relief, not him, not any longer.

But that did not take the hurt away.

"Laddie?" Bilbo focused immediately at the sound of the familiar voice, glancing upward for the first time in Mahal-knew-how-long. Balin stood over him, clad in the rich, dark robes earlier found in the vaults of the Mountain, as the rest of the Company was, Bilbo included. "It's time," was all he spoke, helping the hobbit haul himself to his feet before ushering him inside and shutting the heavy door behind.

Inside, Bilbo found himself shown to the side of the remaining members of the Company, though his sight lay elsewhere, roaming automatically to the front of the hall, down the long pathway.

Three tombs. Bilbo felt his chest seize as he was sat down.

Then came the images, the visions of what lay within the caskets. Thorin and Fili and Kili, his friends, their eyes closed as with slumber, but too still – far too still – to be natural. The pain, the fear, wiped from their brows, but so too the joy, the happier sparks which would light their eyes, always shining and alive with life. Faces cleaned of the dirt, blood, and grime, seemingly at perfect peace, yet pale and empty, devoid of all emotion, both the good and bad. Eyelids closed forever, obscured by sheets of heavy stone.

Unnatural. So very unnatural.

Bilbo threw his sight to the floor, sucking in a shaky breath and holding it in, hoping to quiet the sounds of his sobs, escaping so freely as they were. He screwed his eyes shut, and thus could not have guessed what was to come next.

The hobbit jumped slightly in his seat when he felt the hand upon his shoulder. Eyes darting suddenly open, he glanced down to his left, finding the entire Company placing their hands gently upon the two on either side, turning their individual mourning into something more bearable – a grief shared together – as each drew upon the strength of his friends to combat the darkness. Meeting the gaze of Bifur, seated at his left, Bilbo, at the very right of the row himself, joined the chain, laying his hand upon the mute dwarf's arm. There came no miraculous surge of strength as the great tales tended to celebrate, but the hobbit did not wish for anything more, silencing his thoughts the best he could manage as music signaled the start of the ceremony.

" _I saw the light, fade from the sky…"_

* * *

 **A/N: So there we are! The prompt was "Imagine 'The Last Goodbye' being sung at Fili and Kili's funeral", and, I guess I just hope this all turned out well! There may be a companion story coming out for Fili and Kili's actual death (because PJ's version doesn't sit well with me) that fits as a "missed moment" of sorts as it wouldn't be seen from Bilbo's POV. So just stick around my account for that (whenever it ends up happening). Hope you all liked this!**


End file.
